


Something Borrowed

by fansofcollisions



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Body Horror, Eye Gouging, Gen, no explicit descriptions i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kise stole a lot of things in his match with Seirin. Akashi steals something back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place directly after the Winter Cup match between Kaijo and Seirin. I'm working off the assumption that Seirin are the winners, but as I haven't gotten a chance to watch the newest episode yet, my speculation might be wrong (and everyone who has watched it or read the manga already, feel free to laugh if this is utterly jossed). 
> 
> Regardless, Akashi didn't seem too happy in that match about Kise using his power.

“Would you take a walk with me?”

The words startle Kise out of his stupor. He lifts his head from the fountain and glances down – force of habit – to meet mismatched eyes. A bead of water hangs on his lip and he brushes it away with the heel of his hand.

“Akashicchi.” The other boy tilts his head, expectant, assured. Nobody refuses him.

Kasamatsu was crying when he left the locker room, or near enough to it. His consolation smiles were too wobbly to reassure anybody. That’s not something he can handle on top of everything else he’s feeling. Kise can’t return there, and any other avenue promises a potential run-in with a different competitor, one with the light of victory in their eyes. So if Akashi wants to talk, why put up a fuss?

“Let’s go,” he orders, like he’d been the one to suggest the outing. His bones ache for more action, less of whatever this melancholic frustration is. Perhaps his former captain has some words of advice for him. If so, he’ll listen. He should have spent more time listening from the start. Maybe then…

Akashi nods and steps into file beside him, always a half-pace ahead. He sets the course, and Kise follows, too lost in the last hour’s events to question their path, even as it leads them further from the locker rooms.

No words are spoken, but that’s alright. Akashi speaks in his own time, Kise knows this. Nothing can be rushed. Everything is just _so_. They leave the building behind, metal doors clanging with finality as they step outside. Kise is certain he’s waiting for some perfectly dramatic moment to impart his unfeeling wisdom. And see! The taste of rain is on the air, a wet sweetness. Pathetic fallacy. The perfect opportunity for a dramatic reveal. He thinks that maybe he’ll bring Akashi a cape from his next wardrobe fitting, or a military jacket. They would suit the smaller frame better than his.

He shivers despite himself. The sweat that still lingers on his bare arms cools and rebeads with the air’s residue, his skin filmy like someone’s rubbed dish soap into every crevasse. He should have at least showered – cramped muscles will not help him sleep tonight, though he suspects that might have been a lost cause anyway.

Somehow, even with his longer gate, Akashi makes it to the bottom of the steps before him and strides towards the street. Kise pulls in on himself. “Are we going anywhere in particular?” He meant to snap – to release even a tiny bit of aggression, a show of strength, proof he’s still got something left in him that can fight – but the words come out slow and resigned. He suddenly feels very, very tired.

“I have something I need to show you.” Ah. A mystery illustration, then. _How very noir of you._ Kise would laugh, if he wasn’t afraid it might turn to something harsher, uglier. Splintered.

“Fine.” He sticks his hands into the waistband of his shorts and follows Akashi across the street.

Kise should probably return to the locker room, see if a gentle word and a faked smile of his own can cheer his captain somewhat. The rest of the team will manage, but Kasamatsu takes everything upon himself and it’s not fair to leave him alone in this.

This was his last game, after all.

Akashi glances back at him, and Kise feels the compulsion, just as strong now as when he was fourteen and fresh-faced and oh-so eager to please. _Follow_.

He does. Kasamatsu falls from his mind, or perhaps he pushes him out. He can beg off Akashi’s overpowering personality later, if he needs to, to Kasamatsu and maybe even to himself. It’s easier than admitting his own weakness. It’s easier than going back and facing his teammates. He could resist it, but he allows Akashi to steer him, to empty his mind of all the anger and guilt and just _follow_. It’s easier.

Kise follows, even when the street turns narrower, when the streetlights thin and disappear, when the moisture turns to mist in the evening air and his limbs start to tremble from the chill. Akashi’s stride brooks no deviation from their established course.

They’ve walked maybe five minutes before Kise realizes they’ve lost the street altogether. A few stars strain their light through the gap between the slats above: a gazebo. He looks around and sees the remnants of what might once have been a flourishing park, full of laughing children and proud mothers. Now the buildings are abandoned, graffitied, their doors shadowed or missing altogether. A derelict play structure looms nearby, adorned with leaves and food wrappers, its form unknowable in the darkness.

Kise can’t parse the lesson at first glance. Is he meant to reflect on his own transience, or on the natural decay of once-beautiful things? Or has Akashi brought him here simply to ridicule his failure? No, but that isn’t his style. He doesn’t understand.

“Why are we here, Akashicchi?”

There’s no answer. Kise takes another step into the gazebo, searching out Akashi’s ill-defined shape. There’s barely enough light to make out his figure. “Akashicchi?”

 _Kneel._ Kise’s legs hit the wood and pain blossoms out through his kneecaps all the way up to his hips. His vision sparks, burnt with the after-image of red and gold. He slams his hands onto the floor, gasping. “Come.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but another voice calls out first in acknowledgment of the order not meant for him. It’s a familiar voice, one he recognizes from a day or so ago, crying out to his teammates: _Defence. Defence._

Fear sparks him out of his post-loss stupor, an unnamed fear that springs from darkness and the submission that kneeling implies. He pushes on the floor with his hands but it feels like someone’s anchored his ankles with iron shackles, and a heavy weight rests on his back, keeping it bent. “Aka- c-chi,” he gasps out again, desperate from a reprieve from the heaviness that threatens to crush his lungs.

He’s experienced the effect of the eye, of course. Every one of the Generation of Miracles has. But that is a fleeting moment of disorientation, over so fast that you don’t realize why you’re staring up at the ceiling until Akashi has stolen the ball, and half the court from you. Compared to this beating storm, his old experiences seem like nothing more than the kiss of a light breeze.

“You lost today, Ryota. Why is that?”

Kise grits his teeth. “Let me up-”

“Answer the question.” Someone’s fist makes contact with his side and he wheezes. Akashi’s voice is nothing but calm. An unknown player shifts back behind him, but does not speak.

“Because I was weak,” Kise forces out. Is that what Akashi wants to hear?

A hand grips the back of his neck and forces him down, until his forehead is grazing the dirty wood between his clenching palms. He should be resisting with all his might, but every time he raises his eyes he meets Akashi’s cool glare and the fight drains from him.

“I’ll rephrase. _How_ could you lose?”

“I don’t-”

“How could you lose, Ryota, when you had every move at your disposal? How is it possible for one so blessed to have fallen?”

“I told you! I was weak!”

“No.”

“I WAS WEAK!” He hurls the words at Akashi, knowing they’re not the right ones. The grip on his neck pinches at his windpipe and he gags.

“No. You were not weak.” Akashi flicks his fingers and the hand vanishes. Kise shoots back up into a kneeling position, coughing, but before he can leap to his feet Akashi’s face is by his and his hand is tightening in yellow hair and he can’t. Move.

“I’ll tell you why, Ryota. You lost, because you did not respect what you had stolen. You lost, because you took without understanding. You lost, because what you do, however impressive, however flashy, will never be more than a cheap imitation of your betters.” Akashi yanks his head back and forces him to meet his eyes. There’s barely a hint of red remaining, eclipsed by a glowing gold circlet: a king’s crown. Kise has never understood, until this moment, why so many people are frightened of him. The nickname won’t come to his lips now, so he mutters his plea with unfamiliar respect.

“Akashi. Please let me go.”

Akashi blinks, a momentary respite, and when he reopens his eyes they seem just a taste less alien. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking on Kise’s part.

The hand slithers out from his hair, and the pressure abates enough to allow him to stand on shaking legs. He prays to whatever god is listening that he has enough money in his wallet to pay for a cab back to the complex, because he’s not sure his own body will carry him there.

“I should get back. My team- I mean-” His mouth tastes like parchment, words dry and clumsy. Why is he afraid? This is Akashi. Akashi, who he’s known for years, who is quiet and frightful but ultimately, _fair._ He has no reason to fear him. Still, there’s something in the atmosphere. Something dangerous, enough so that even facing Kasamatsu’s disappointment seems a preferable fate.

Akashi considers, and for a hysterical moment Kise is certain he’ll give an order for bloody execution, but the anger has mostly faded now, replaced with his usual detachment. “Of course.” Why is he so relieved? It’s not like Haizaki. Akashi won’t order his team to beat him to a pulp; he’s far too refined for that. Still…

Plastering on the fakest grin of his life, Kise begins to turn, but he runs into a solid mass of muscle before he can make it fully around. “What?” he growls as he’s returned to his original orientation.

“Of course,” Akashi continues, “you may go. If you would give me one more moment.” He steps forward, till Kise feels every inch of his height. He gulps. There’s nothing safe in Akashi’s gaze, no hint of familiarity or affection, and there are at least three more Rakuzan players at his back. He’s alone.

_Kasamatsu might still be waiting. He’ll call, if I don’t come back soon. Ring, phone. Ring. Ring._

“In our match with Shutoku, I made my teammates a promise. A very serious promise. Do you know what I said?” Kise slowly shakes his head. “Kotaro. Do you remember what I said?”

“You said…” A nervous pause. For the first time, Kise wonders if he might not be the only one who’s afraid tonight. “You said that if we lost, you would gouge out your eyes.”

“So I did.” Kise bolts forward but a strong arm wraps around his shoulders and drags him back. _Oh god. Oh god, he wouldn’t, please. This is insane, he can’t, he wouldn’t-_ “We did not lose, obviously. But you, Ryota. You used my Emperor Eye. You used it without understanding the gravity of your actions, and you lost.”

Akashi reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. Metal glints in the filtered starlight as he draws it across the air in front of him. Kise curls backward against the body behind him. He feels every organ south of his heart shrivel up and pull into himself, his eyes watering in mute horror.

“Akashi- Akashicchi, _what-_ ” His mouth falls open, useless, as he watches the blade draw closer. The smell of rain is still on the air.

“I will not allow you to make a mockery of that power again.” He can feel the hot stain of tears begin to escape, eyes almost too blurred to follow the path of the knife and he whimpers, legs kicking futilely as he tries to wrench himself out of the grip that binds him.

“Don’t be afraid, Ryota. The knife is sterile, and Eikichi will bandage you and take you to the hospital after this is done. You will not die, I assure you.”

“What are you- Aka- stop, please don’t…”

This time, it’s a swift kick that brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t even register the pain. “Hold him tightly.” A hand grabs his jaw roughly, ceasing the babbled cries. This can’t be happening. High school students don’t do things like this. People don’t really die in deserted parks before ten on a Tuesday night. Or maybe they do. But not him. Not him.

Another hand forces up his eyelids and holds them there, so that all he can see is gold and grey and darkness, and gold. Everything is gold.

Then everything is black.

\---

Kise’s phone rings. After four tries, whoever is calling gives up. Nobody hears it over the other… _sounds._

By the morning, there are 57 text messages from Kasamatsu in his inbox.

He doesn’t read a single one.

 

 

 


End file.
